


Carry Your Throne

by Paraphfernalia



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Additional Warnings Apply, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Depression, Drabble Collection, F/M, Manic Episode, Mental Health Issues, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Steve is everyone's mom
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-12
Updated: 2018-06-03
Packaged: 2018-07-14 12:53:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7172558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paraphfernalia/pseuds/Paraphfernalia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If you're lost in this darkness, I'll carry your throne. No, I won't let it swallow you whole.</p><p>Series of possibly related, possibly unrelated Winter Witch drabbles. Updates whenever I find inspiration!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

He should be paying attention to the new recruit that Sam insisted would help them with their fight, but instead, Bucky could only focus on _her_. He stood behind the pathetic excuse of a car that Sam had managed to hotwire, used to keeping his distance, and watched the countenance that crossed her face. A look of relief when she saw that Steve was unhurt, an amused expression when Lang assured her that he thought she, too, was great ( _and wasn’t she?)_ , and then a welcoming smile when the conversation was said and done and her eyes finally shifted to meet his.

“Suit up.” He heard Steve tell them, and she held his gaze for a few moments longer, before turning away to retrieve her wardrobe from the van behind them.

“I thought you said she was a kid,” he commented to Steve, both now standing behind the Volkswagen as they were pulling off their civilian clothes and replacing them with the gear they’d worn as battle-hardened soldiers. She looked young, yes, but from the way his friend had talked about her, he would have thought she’d been a sullen teenager at the time of joining the Avengers.

Steve tugged his t-shirt off over his head, turning to look the direction that Bucky was glancing with something of a knowing look back to his friend. In some ways, it was great to have that side of his long-lost brother back, but in others, he had watched Bucky wine and dine and never call plenty of women when he moved on to the next one. There was no way in hell he was going to stand idly by and allow the same thing to happen to one of his team members, least of all, Wanda. “She’s barely twenty-three,” he responded dryly, stepping into the trousers of his Captain America suit, and hoping this was the end of the conversation.

“We were younger when we enlisted,” Bucky pointed out, feeling only marginally shameful as he watched Wanda strip out of the thigh-high socks, shrug out of her jacket, and lift her thin black dress over her head. He caught sight of creamy skin, black lace, sharp hipbones, and he averted his gaze back downwards as he busied himself with fastening his pants. “Doesn’t look like a kid.”

“Bucky,” Steve warned, having pulled on the rest of his outfit and began adjusting the harness for his shield over his shoulders. “Off limits.” He finished clasping his belt around his hips, and opened the hood of the Volkswagen (which served as the trunk, with the engine in the back of the vehicle, from what Bucky remembered of the German-made cars) to dig grenades and flash bombs out of a bag to arm himself.

He dared to lift his eyes one last time, to find that Wanda already donned the tight, black leather leggings, and was zipping up the front of her red leather top. When his wandering glance raised to her face, he was shocked to find her watching him in much of the same manner. Her eyes shifted from his face to the junction of his shoulder, where metal met flesh, and he turned away from her with bile rising up his throat, as he quickly finished dressing in his sleeveless, black armor, and leather one-armed jacket. He was an experiment, and although he’d remembered vaguely hearing about the Maximoff twins a handful of years ago while he was still working for Hydra, her scars were much less visible. His insecurities, his failures, he wore them hanging from his bones, and why he’d entertained for a split second that she would look at him as anything other than what he was… They’d seriously messed with his brain.

“James.” Her voice was as soft as she looked, tinged with an accent that he guessed she’d already been losing over her years away from Sokovia. He looked up to find her circling the back of the car with her jacket resting over her forearm, showing the slight definition of her muscles in her upper arms. She stretched out her free hand to shake his, and her eyes were even more vibrant up close. “I’m happy to finally meet you. Steve’s told me so much about you, and I know he’s glad that you’re back. I look forward to fighting alongside you.”

For a few moments too long, he couldn’t find anything to say, and when that shine in her eyes began to fade, likely thinking she’d overstepped some boundary by coming to talk to him, he wanted to put a smile back on her face. “Steve told me about you, too,” he settled on. “Said you can read minds.” _Smooth, Bucky, excellent._ He wondered if she was reading his, because she just smiled.

“Something like that. It’s more like I can always hear thoughts, and through a lot of training, I’ve learned how to…” She trailed off, brows furrowing. “Притупить,” she mumbled under her breath.

“Dull,” he responded, almost as if on instinct, and gave her something of a small smirk when she looked up to him, attempting to mask her surprise.

“Yes, I’ve learned how to dull it,” Wanda confirmed with a small nod, a smirk upon her lips as well. “It’s like always listening to the radio when it is static. But if I concentrate and focus, then I can pick and choose who to hear. I cannot accidentally read your thoughts, and I’ve already made a promise not to intrude in the thoughts of my teammates, if that’s something that concerns you.”

“I’m not concerned about it,” Bucky responded, and it was the truth. She could manipulate his mind, she could twist him and break him and the rest of the world with only a flick of the wrist, but she wouldn’t. Redemption was something she’d fought hard to find, and he believed that she truly wanted it, just as he did.

“Good. Although, I don’t have to read your thoughts when you’re staring at me as blatantly as you were,” she skirted around him, brushing her fingertips against the metal of his arm, and he’s surprised at how warm she feels. He turns around as she moves, an apology upon his lips, but when he sees the bemused smile she tosses over her shoulder as she walks away, he knows she doesn’t want it.

 _Off limits,_ the words repeat in his head. And to think, Steve was worried about him.


	2. Two

She wasn’t sure how, but Wanda seemed to find herself the local expert in cutting hair. She’d always trimmed Pietro’s when they were younger, living on the streets, and couldn’t afford a proper hairdresser. So she learned, through a bit of trial and error, the basic way to trim someone’s hair. It came in handy when they were on the run, but she’d never intended it to become a  _ thing _ .

So one day, shortly after Steve had returned to Wakanda with his shaggy hair and his overgrown beard, he complained of needing a haircut, and Bucky pointed towards her. “Oh, Wanda can help. She did this,” and he ran his hand through his trimmed locks.

For the second time, she borrowed a pair of shears from Shuri, who seemed to have just about any instrument stowed away in her lab, even if it was meant for something as simple as cutting hair. In the room prepared for Steve's stay, she lay a towel around his shoulders and one in his lap, him sitting in the chair provided for the room’s desk, and her standing behind him.

“I feel like I haven’t talked to you much, since I’ve been back,” he said, when she began trimming his hair.

“Well, you have been busy.” He didn’t need to turn and look at her to hear the smile that was in her voice, and he felt the tops of his ears begin to burn, hoping that she wasn’t implying the type of busy he had been only that morning. She had no reason to think so, and instead of letting that piece of information slip, he turned it back towards her.

“So have you,” he responded, and Wanda only hummed in response.

He shifted his head this way and that as she beckoned, working in amicable silence for a few moments, before Wanda spoke again.

“You really like her?” She asked, knowing she needn’t specify which woman she was talking about.

Steve smiled softly, keeping his eyes still facing forward, though his mind was filled with images of Natasha, some innocent, and others most certainly not. “Yeah, I do,” he settled on.

Wanda smiled in return, even if he could not see it, running her fingers over a section of his hair to trim a little bit more in that area. “She is pretty, and smart, and nice. You deserve all of that, Steve. I am happy for you.” And she truly was. She knew that Steve put himself being a Captain above all else, but she was glad to see him put his own wants and needs first, for once. After everything he had been through, he deserved that.

“You and Bucky, huh?” Steve asked, smiling slightly when the scissors stopped cutting his hair for a brief moment. 

Wanda paused in her work, but felt no shame in what she’d found with the Winter Soldier, and didn’t feel the need to hide away from it. So with a smile, she continued and responded with a simple, “yes.”

“I’ve never seen him like that, how much he smiles around you — it’s weird.”

She laughed out loud, pulling her hands back so that she didn’t accidentally snip off a layer of hair too much. “Well,  _ I _ have never seen  _ you _ make eyes at someone as often as you do with Natasha.”

Steve scowled, wanting to turn over his shoulder, but her hands on the crown of his head pushed his gaze back forward, while she continued trimming. “I do not  _ make eyes _ ,” he responded, saying the words she’d used incredulously.

Wanda shook her head, the mirth still shining in her eyes. “Oh, Steve, it is obvious to anyone who can see. I’m not saying it is a bad thing, it is cute.”

Steve Rogers, Captain America, was not  _ cute _ , and he fell silent for a few moments, while he stewed in that thought. But Wanda was right, it wasn’t a bad thing, that he felt this way about someone, and it wasn’t a bad thing if he showed that publicly. He just needed to remind himself not to stare at Natasha with a goofy look on his face whenever he was in Wanda’s presence.

After a few minutes of listening to the muted  _ snip snip _ of her scissors, he spoke again. “He treats you right?” Bucky was his best friend and brother, but he wasn’t above straightening him out if he needed it.

“He does,” Wanda responded, her smile still plastered to her face. “More than alright.” She put the shears down and ran her fingers through his hair to shake out any of the stray pieces. Steve turned over his shoulder to look up at her, a look in his eyes so serious that she stopped, tilting her head in question. “What? You’re not going to try and have ‘the talk’ with me, are you?” She asked apprehensively. 

“What?  _ No! _ ” Steve sputtered, the look on his face leaving Wanda wishing she had a camera. At least, until he continued, “I mean, do-do you need ’the talk’?”

“God,  _ Steve, no _ !” Her cheeks were bright red, and she was busying herself with folding the towels so that she didn’t have to look at him.

There was a long and awkward stretch of silence between them, before they both started talking at once.

“I’m going to—” he began.

While she started, “You should—”

“—trim my beard—”

“—great idea.”

And Steve took refuge in the bathroom, where he could use the electric razor to trim some of the hair off of his beard, while Wanda tried to figure out if she should just leave — it would certainly spare her from the embarrassment of whatever  _ that _ was. But it didn’t feel right to run away, so she stayed there, somewhat awkwardly pacing about the room trying to find something to do with her hands, like straighten pillows or brush dust off of a bookcase.

When Steve was finished, and sure that he wasn’t going to just explode from embarrassment, he rinsed his hands and left the bathroom, half-expecting Wanda to already be gone; but she was there, lining up books on a shelf that he hadn’t even noticed before. She didn’t stop, even though she knew he was there, until he spoke again.

Reaching up, Steve ran a hand across the back of his neck. “I’m just glad that you’re happy—both of you. I know how hard you’ve had it, and I just don’t want to see you hurt, again. Or Bucky…” Even if it wasn’t the same kind of hurt that came with losing a brother or being a Hydra experiment, or any of the other hundred things they’d had to deal with in life.

She placed the last book on the shelf, before turning towards him and offering him a small smile. “I know, Steve. James has been through a lot, but he is a good man. I appreciate that you worry, like Pietro would worry,” Wanda smiled at that thought, reaching out to take her jacket from where she’d laid it across the bed while she worked. “If I need you to kick his ass, I will let you know, okay?”

Steve smiled in return, nodding at that, crossing his arms over his chest.

“It is good to see you happy, Captain. It’s been a long time since I have seen you like this,” she gestured to him as if that would explain it all. “If you need advice on flowers or jewelry, you know where to find me.” And although it was a jest, she would also provide input on those things, and anything else Steve needed help on, if he were truly asking it of her.

With that, she folded her jacket over her arm and as she walked past Steve, she hesitated for a moment, before pulling him into a hug, which he returned without even having to think about it. “Let’s never talk about this.”

“Deal.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Despite Infinity War's best efforts to absolutely crush my soul and spirit, I am, indeed, alive. So here's a little nugget of some protective brother!Steve, while I try to get back into writing again. I have soooo many half-baked plans, expect to see maybe 2% of them if you're lucky ;)


	3. Hey - Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alternate Universe - No Powers
> 
> Trigger Warning: Mental illness

“Thanks again for helping me find this place,” Bucky said, hefting the box in his arms and shutting the door to Steve’s car with his hip. Precariously balancing the cardboard box in one hand, he pulled open the door to the lobby, catching it with his foot and widening the gap so that he could slip in and prop it open with his back.

“Buck, it’s no problem. You say that like I got you a room at the Ritz Carlton. It’s just another shithole apartment in Brooklyn, just like  _every other_  shithole apartment.” Steve replied, the other box of items gathered in his arms, and the last two boxes they needed to bring in.

“I’ve already signed the lease, Steve, there’s no need to keep trying to sell me on the place.” The shit-eating grin on his face made Steve roll his eyes, but he was just glad that the adjustment back to a civilian lifestyle was going far better than it had a few weeks ago. Once he shifted so that Steve could hold the door open with his shoulder, Bucky turned to enter the building, nearly plowing over someone who was checking their mail.

“Shit, I am so sorry,” he moved to place the box on the floor when he noticed that the woman had dropped a few letters onto the ground.

“It’s okay,” she responded, and he detected a hint of an accent, but he couldn’t place it. He tried to help her gather up the mail that lay on the ground, but she was quicker, pulling the envelopes all together in her hands and standing up. He rose with her, taking in her soft features, the slight hint of her perfume, and the smirk on her lips. “Welcome to the shithole.”

“I didn’t—” He wanted to apologize, not having meant to offend anyone, but she was already off, tucking her mail into the bag over her shoulder and squeezing past Steve and out into the street. “I wasn’t even the one who said it.”

Steve chuckled beside him, and Bucky looked over with a scowl. “Already making friends with your neighbors, I knew this was going to be a walk in the park for you.”

The elevator in the building was out of service, which only further perpetuated the stereotype that Steve had called it, but neither of them had any trouble walking up the seven flights of stairs to his floor. Boxes of clothes were one thing, but trying to squeeze his second-hand couch and mattress around the stairwell  _had_  been an adventure. Inside his new home, Bucky placed his box down on the kitchen counter and surveyed the room.

It was a simple, one-bedroom apartment without any frills, but that was exactly what he needed. He didn’t have many possessions to fill it with, and no decorating sense to speak of; he was just glad that he didn’t need to bother Steve any longer by crashing on his couch. Of course his friend assured him that it wasn’t a big deal, but Bucky knew he was worried. He had returned in pieces, mentally and a little physically, and putting himself back together again was proving to be difficult.

“You have that job interview this week?” Steve asked, and Bucky knew he was trying to pretend to make conversation and not seem like he was prying.

Bucky pulled a few things out of the box in front of him, more just to do something with his hands than actually out of necessity. “Yep, same time as I already told you before,” he pointed out, tossing Steve a knowing look.

“Right, right, you did tell me that.” He moved over towards the window in the apartment, crossing his arms over his chest as he looked out, though the view was mostly other people’s windows and fire escapes. It wasn’t exactly scenic, but there was a little slice of sky he could see if he stood just right and tilted his head a little. “I was just making sure you didn’t forget, this time.”

Bucky paused in pulling things out of the box, looking over towards Steve’s back, and then slowly resumed taking out the three plates and two sets of silverware that he owned. “I’ll go to this one,” he promised, turning to place the items in his hands inside one of the kitchen cabinets. He felt guilty that he’d missed the last one, but his sleep schedule had been so terribly off, he had been awake for nearly 48 hours and slept right through it.

“Good. You’ll like Sam, he’s a great guy. He’s looking forward to meeting you.” Steve turned and smiled towards him, the same way he had since they were kids. Steve Rogers, always putting other people before him, who called in a favor to get him this apartment, who pulled some strings to find him a job interview, who drug him out of a ditch after his arm had been blown clean off.

Bucky flexed the prosthesis that was his left hand, and when he looked up again, Steve was watching him. “Yeah, I’m sure we’ll get along,” he finally said, as Steve crossed the floor back towards the door. He was sure this meeting with Sam had absolutely nothing to do with his profession and the years of therapy Bucky probably needed. “You leaving already? You left this place an absolute mess.” He looked around to the four boxes he had to his name.

“Hey, I promised you I would help move your stuff in, not that I would unpack everything for you. And you almost dropped a couch on my face.”

“Well I  _told_  you to pivot,” he defended with a smirk on his face, and the smile was back on Steve’s.

“Right, sure, I’ll let you off with that one for now.” He reached into his pocket and placed the key on the countertop that he had been keeping track of since he got it. “I promised Nat that I would be back in time to take her to dinner. She got reservations at this uppity snooty place so that we can go and see how the other half lives and how terrible it must be.” Bucky could picture them sitting at a table snickering at all of the old, rich white dudes around them with their wives forty years their junior, pretending to like fish eggs and coffee brewed from beans that were dug out of elephant shit.

“Well, you have fun with that.” He moved over towards the door, and obligatorily patted Steve on the back when he pulled him into a brief, one-armed hug.

“Call me if you need anything, and don’t forget about Wednesday.”

Bucky nodded, “I got it, I got it,” he assured his friend, before bidding him farewell and shutting the door behind him. Though he didn’t have anything worth stealing or living for, he slipped the deadbolt into place and turned back to his empty apartment.

Quiet.

So quiet that he could hear himself think, and he wasn’t particularly a fan of that. He flipped on the TV that Steve picked up at a consignment store and turned it to one of the three stations he got without cable — the home shopping network. Just for something to drown everything else out, to fill the void of silence.

 

* * *

 

The silence didn’t last long, he found.

Bucky put away the few cooking utensils and vessels that he owned to the sound of police sirens every few minutes through the open window. Whoever lived in the apartment above him walked with  _purpose_ , no matter where they were going, he took notice as he hung a few shirts in his closet. There were kids in the small courtyard between his building and the one next door who seemed to be constantly screaming, and on the one side of his apartment were the floor’s laundry facilities, that were perpetually in use and perpetually clunking.

All in all, he loved the place so far.

Because he didn’t own a lot, he was able to finish unpacking all of his life in just a couple of hours. Natasha had stocked his shelves with some dry goods and a few things in his fridge, so he cooked an entire box of spaghetti, surprised when it turned out to be far too much pasta for him to eat, and a little disappointed when he found out he didn’t have any sauce to put in it.

There wasn’t anything else to preoccupy him, and he had avoided sleeping for most of the night before. Waking hours were bad enough, but asleep, the horrors in his mind were limitless. Still, he knew that Steve would be disappointed if he didn’t give it a shot, so he took a few capsules of Melatonin, and went to sleep.

Or so he tried.

Bucky tossed and turned for the better part of an hour, he thought, although he didn’t have a bedside clock to confirm. It was maybe the two hundred and sixty-first sheep that he was counting, when he heard the shower in the apartment next to his start running. It was actually a little relaxing to listen to the steady rhythm of the water, and he closed his eyes again.

_This is America, don’t catch you slippin’ up. Don’t catch you slippin’ up, look what I’m whippin’ up._

Bucky opened his eyes again, looking towards the wall as if it would give him any response to the confusion written on his face. Whoever was taking a shower in the apartment over was listening to music at the same time, and rather loudly. With a sigh, he settled back into the pillows and resumed looking up towards the ceiling.

_You're my forever, my slice of heaven on this side of the Mississippi river, baby. You're my infinity, no end to you and me, come hell, fire, or rain, baby, nothin' can change it._

The country crooner was a stark difference from the political rap music that had played right beforehand, but it was slower and a little less angry, so he could probably fall asleep to that.

_Just how deep do you believe? Will you bite the hand that feeds? Will you chew until it bleeds?_

Nine Inch Nails; now  _that_  was a band that he remembered listening to in high school, thinking that being broody and mysterious was what would attract girls. He wasn’t entirely wrong, but he hadn’t heard the song in  _years_ , and he moved his feet in tandem with the rhythm for the rest of the lyrics, yawning into the back of his hand.

_Yeah, I might speak so long. I've never been so wrong. Excuse me for a while, turn a blind eye with a stare caught right in the middle._

This wasn’t a song that he recognized, but the singer’s voice was soothing and melodic, and he found himself closing his eyes. He drifted off somewhere between a Talking Heads song he didn’t remember all the lyrics to and a completely instrumental rendition of a song he swore he knew, but couldn't place.

When he woke in the morning, he felt more rested than he had in a while.

 

* * *

 

The next few days passed in much the same manner. For the first two, he spent most of his time in his apartment. He left to get food occasionally, usually well passed when the sun went down, so he didn’t have to encounter as many people. Sometimes at night, he’d lay in bed and listen to whatever the neighbor had on deck for that evening. Sometimes there was silence, sometimes the music came early in the morning, while Bucky had been lying in bed staring at the shadows in the corners all night.

James Blake, Blackbear, Marilyn Manson, Queen.

Every night or every morning was an equally obscure combination of artists and songs that shouldn’t coexist. But it kept him from thinking too much, gave him something else to focus on, and oddly relaxed him. It was as disjointed and confusing as he felt, and it made him feel like that was alright.

He met his neighbor once, leaving his apartment to run to the grocery store just before midnight, when the guy next door was returning. Admittedly, Bucky was feeling a little  _manic_ , as Sam liked to describe it. Nothing like a frightening term for a frightening feeling.

“Have you heard that new Dave Matthews Band song?” He asked, and the neighbor looked around for a moment, before realizing that Bucky was addressing him.

“Uh, yeah… Sure.” He was eying Bucky like he didn’t know exactly how to answer, whether he should just ignore the stranger trying to talk to him, should rush into his apartment, or maybe call the cops.

Bucky realized listening to his neighbor’s music selection through the paper-thin walls was  _probably_  more than a little creepy, and he laughed nervously, a little too loudly, while the man tried to slip his key into the lock. “Sorry, I, um, could hear you listening to it.”

He turned the knob, staring at Bucky for another handful of seconds, before nodding, looking more and more like he wanted to pretend this awkward encounter had never happened. “Right, sorry. I’ll turn it down.” And then he was pushing inside his apartment, locking the door and the deadbolt shortly after. There was something there, something vaguely familiar that pulled at Bucky’s consciousness, but he was too wired and on edge to let it get to him.

And for a few days, things were good. The neighbor hadn’t turned down his music, but Bucky wasn’t bothered. A few times he whistled or hummed along, sometimes drumming his fingers against his ribcage to a particularly catchy rhythm.

He was on time to his job each morning, he got drinks with Steve twice in the span of a week, and had even gotten a haircut. Things were good.

Until they weren’t.

One morning, he woke up and couldn’t get out of bed. He stared at the ceiling, blinked up at the empty nothingness, and wondered if this was what he would always feel like. If life would give him a couple of good days, show him an end to the darkness that stretched out before him, and then snatch it away.

He didn’t call into work, he didn’t answer his phone when it rang, he hardly drug himself out of bed to eat enough to keep his body alive. He laid and he stared. He slept more often than not, taking a few of the sleep aids he still had whenever he woke up. Bucky would sleep it off, he thought.

Days had passed, though he didn't know how many. Steve stopped by once, but Bucky couldn’t look him in the eyes, didn’t want to see the pity he wore there, didn’t want to answer Steve’s questions: Was he eating enough? Did he want to talk about anything? How was he feeling? Nothing, nothing,  _nothing_. The answer to everything was nothing. He wanted nothing, he felt nothing, he was  _nothing_.

But you can’t just tell a person that, not someone who won’t understand, so Bucky explained he was just tired, just needed to catch up on some sleep; he would be better once he had rested a bit. And even though he knew Steve didn’t believe him, his friend didn't push any harder, and eventually left him to wallow.

Whether it was night or day, Bucky wasn’t sure, but he’d taken several times the recommended dose of the sleeping aids, and had been staring at the ceiling for hours, when he heard the shower nextdoor turn on. He clenched his jaw for a moment, and closed his eyes. The song that played was fast and upbeat and whether it was the lack of sleep, his current mood, or something else entirely, something in him snapped a little.

Curling his prosthetic hand into a fist, he banged on the wall a few times, hard and loud.

There was a series of crashes on the other side, knocking over heavy shampoo bottles or scrambling out of the shower to find the volume control for the music, and seconds later it was silenced. Then he couldn’t hear anything but the water, and he sighed into the emptiness.

Half an hour later, someone knocked on his door. Twice. Probably his neighbor. Bucky didn’t get out of bed.

 

* * *

 

Two days had gone by. At least, Bucky was reasonably certain it had been two days. Maybe three, maybe one, did it matter? Time had passed, and he was still in bed.

Today was going to be a day where he  _tried_. All of his counselors and all of the self-help books they recommended and all of the advice Steve recited that he read online encourage people to try. Get up, take a shower, cook some breakfast (or whatever meal of the day normal people were eating right now), and just  _try_. Even if that’s all you can accomplish in that day, well, at least you tried.

So he stood in the shower for a bit. Looked at himself in the mirror for a bit. Pulled on some clothes and stared into his fridge for a bit. Bits and pieces, that’s what he’d come home as, and that’s all he could manage. He was still looking into his empty fridge, wondering how in the hell he’d acquired three different opened bottles of mayonnaise, when there was a knock at the door.

Bucky look over towards it, but otherwise didn’t move. He wasn’t expecting Steve, and no one else ever came to see him. A quick glance at the microwave showed a blinking  _12:00_. Oh, right. The power had gone out the other day and he hadn’t bothered to change any of the clocks on the appliances. He looked out of the window across the apartment. Dark, so that would mean either very early or very late.

They knocked again, and he sighed, shutting the fridge door. He didn’t look through the peephole. It was either Steve or a Jehovah's Witness, and maybe he could use some saving today.

He pulled open the door just as she was turning away, and she quickly shifted back to face him, apparently just as shocked as he was that he’d opened the door. “Hi,” she breathed out after a brief period of awkward silence.

“You’re the girl from the lobby, the one with the letters,” he stated, in case she was having a crisis of self just like he was.

She gave him a small smile, nodding her head a little, and tucking a piece of hair behind her ear. “Right, yes, the girl who also lives in this shithole.” Despite himself, Bucky’s lips quirked upwards a little at the edges, and she seemed to relax a little bit. “Wanda.”

“Wanda,” he repeated her name, committing it to memory. “Bucky.”

“Bucky?” She repeated, tilting her head a litte. “That’s a… strange name.”

He let out a sharp bark of laughter, startling her a little, but she gave him a slight smile anyway. “Yeah, I guess that would be a strange name to give to your kid — it’s a nickname.” He didn’t expand upon it, instead resting his forearm against the door jamb and leaning into it. “Can I help you with something?”

“Oh, right,” Wanda smiled a little abashedly, and he watched as she twisted several rings around her fingers — a nervous habit, he assumed. “I just wanted to apologize.”

“For running off before I could get your number?” It was a little forward, but it was something that pre-war Bucky would have asked without hesitation, whether he was being serious or not. And he wasn’t sure which he’d go with, if asked.

Wanda just rolled her eyes, but a smirk pulled at the corner of her lips. “No, definitely not. I think that I deserve an apology for assuming that I would even give you my number.”

Bucky pressed his other hand against his heart, pretending to be wounded, and her eyes glanced down towards it — his prosthetic arm. He felt a chill run down his spine, pulling his arm down and shifting it so that it was hidden behind the door again, nausea starting to rise in his throat. He didn’t meet her gaze, didn’t want to see the pity that was always written there. Most of all, he prayed to whatever higher being may be out that there she didn’t try to thank him for his service.

“I’m apologizing for the music,” she said, not mentioning at all what she had seen, and for that, Bucky was extremely grateful.

“For the what?” He asked, uncertain if he’d heard her correctly.

“The music,” Wanda repeated, lifting her hand to wave in the air. “I… The man who lived here before you, Mr. Walton, he never complained. But, he also couldn’t hear worth a damn.” She gestured towards her own ears. “So, I didn’t really think much of it when he moved out.”

It took Bucky longer than it should have to piece everything together, and when it dawned on him, putting all of the little parts together, he gave a slow and deliberate nod of his head. “You live next door.” It was a statement, an understanding of fact, and she nodded her head. “I thought the music was your boyfriend’s.”

Wanda tilted her head a little, eyes shifting somewhere to the left as she tried to understand. “Pietro?” She asked, looking back towards him with a small smile. “He is my brother.”

One of the tenants across the hall opened their door, glancing towards the two of them talking, before lowering his gaze and locking his door to walk away. New York was like that, everyone minding their own business, and Bucky always appreciated the fact. Still, he felt a bit like an asshole, standing in his doorway talking to her, and glanced briefly over his shoulder. His apartment was clean, albeit void of many personal effects. “Do you want to come in?” He asked, stepping back a little bit and opening the door a bit wider.

“I don’t know, what if you’re going to murder me?” Wanda asked, but there was amusement in her gaze. Still, she stepped forward as he moved away to let her in, closing the door softly behind her. He made a point not to lock it, just in case she  _did_  think he was unhinged enough to kill her. When he turned around towards her, she was walking further into his apartment, her hands in the back pockets of her jeans as she looked around. She didn’t say anything about the empty walls or his lumpy couch or the dirty dishes in his sink. “Pietro said that you mentioned it to him, once, but he didn’t think much of it until…” She trailed off, turning to look back towards him, and then down towards the floor.

Right. If it was her in the shower when he’d pounded on the wall, he had likely scared the shit out of her. “I’m sorry about that,” he told her somewhat sheepishly, moving to stand behind the peninsula of his kitchen counter. “I was having a bad day,” the excuse sounded lame, even to him, but Wanda just gave him an understanding smile, turning around to face him, her arms crossed over her stomach, hands clasping the opposite elbow. He didn’t want to hear her tell him that she knew how he felt, or ask him to talk about it, or explain  _why_. He felt the space in his apartment shrink, the air becoming more difficult to breathe.

“But on good days, you didn’t mind?” She asked, and Bucky tilted his head a bit, curiosity written on his face. Wanda shifted a little under his gaze, moving to stand across the countertop from him, hands rested just on the edge of it. “Pietro made it seem like you weren’t really upset about it, so I didn’t stop. I kept thinking that I would run into you, and I’d ask if you preferred The Scientist over new Coldplay, or which album by the Strokes was your favorite.”

“So you wanted to talk to me? Maybe ask me out to dinner?” Bucky asked, a lazy smirk upturning one corner of his mouth, and Wanda rolled her eyes again, but she was smiling, too.

“No, certainly not that. I bet you are a terrible date, you probably have no manners.” He found that he liked it when she smiled at him, and he liked it even more that she didn’t take his shit.

“First Impressions of Earth,” Bucky said, without really thinking about it.

Wanda hummed for a brief moment, nodding. “That is certainly one of their best albums. I think I like Room on Fire just a bit more, though.”

“But we can both agree that Angles was absolutely unbearable.”

“Yes, garbage,” Wanda agreed, and a comfortable silence fell over them. She was smiling up at him, and he found himself unable to stop from smiling in return. It was a  _moment_ , as Steve probably would have described it, but Bucky was happy to keep this to himself. “What are you doing right now?” She asked, and Bucky quirked an eyebrow upwards. “I was about to go get something for dinner, and I pity you.”

Life is strange, considering that was the last thing he wanted from her, but to hear her say it without a hint of sincerity, it made him laugh. “I’d be careful if I were you, insult me enough and you’ll never be rid of me.” He considered her offer for a moment, and what he would be doing otherwise. None of the alternatives were a fraction as enticing as getting dinner with a pretty girl, who had a strange taste in music and made him laugh. “Well, you seem like horrible company, but I  _am_  hungry. Let me just change, first.” Into jeans and a long-sleeved shirt, which would cover his arm and also make him blend in with productive members of society. He wasn’t sure whether he should ask her to stay or go, but from the purse slung over her shoulder, he assumed that she really was on her way out and already prepared to leave. “Give me two minutes,” he moved around the counter to head towards his bedroom, walking backwards for a few steps while he swept his hand out across the rest of the apartment. “Make yourself at home,” pausing at his doorway, “and don’t steal anything.”

“I have seen nothing yet worth taking,” Wanda replied over her shoulder, before she turned back to survey his small and empty apartment.

By some small miracle (or because up until today he had been wearing the same clothes for too many days to count), he had a clean dark grey shirt, with sleeves long enough to hide everything but his hand. Bucky pulled on a black leather glove to cover that, and a clean pair of jeans. He put a small bit of gel into his still-damp hair, just to smooth it back and away from his face, before he left his bedroom.

When he stepped out, he didn’t see her, and felt a painful clenching in the center of his chest. Was he really such a pathetic excuse of a conversationalist that she’d fled while he was in the other room?

But then she stood up from where she had crouched near the far side of his couch, a vinyl record in her hand. “This is the original 25, is it not?” Wanda asked, turning the record sleeve around, even though he already knew it was The Pixies’ album  _Doolittle_. “This is impossible to find, everywhere I have looked sells only the reissue.” She marveled at it in her hands for a few moments, while Bucky took in the admiration on her face as she looked back down to the record in her hand. “Where did you get this?”

When she looked up, he had made his way over to her, reaching out to brush his palm over the face of the album, disturbing some of the dust that had gathered there. “It was my dad’s, he bought it the year it came out. It’s beat to shit, so it’s probably not worth much, but it’s still their best album. And I’ll fight you if you disagree.”

Wanda laughed, harsh and loud, like she hadn’t been expecting his words, and he liked the sound of it. “I will not fight you on that, and not just because I don’t want to shatter your fragile ego when you are beaten by a woman,” she turned around to replace the record, and he found that he would say anything to keep her smiling at him like that.

“Do you want to borrow it?” It was a stupid question, considering it was 2018 and she could access any music she wanted at her fingertips, but she still paused, looking down at the album in her hands with her back half-turned towards him, as if she was truly considering it.

“I do not have a record player,” she said after a moment, and Bucky could almost pretend that she spent those few seconds trying to come up with a reason to say yes.

He shrugged his shoulders a little. “I got mine from the second-hand store down the street. It’s nothing wild, but it does the trick. Or,” he stretched the word out for two seconds, just long enough to get her to look up at him, even if it was brief. “You can come over and listen to it, if you’d like.”

Wanda tried not so smile, he could tell, even with her face downturned to consider the record in her hand, her eyes scanning over the harsh lines of the artwork on the front. She looked up towards him through dark lashes, before turning to return the record to the milk crate with all of the others. “You could just play it loudly through the wall, and then I won’t have to suffer with your presence.”

Bucky grinned; he couldn’t help it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by my tendency to blare music while I'm showering and getting ready, and one day I wondered how my neighbors felt about my mess of genres. This was going to originally be one part, but then I couldn't stop with these two knuckleheads, and now it's gonna be two (probs).
> 
> List of songs (and referenced artist/songs) if you're curious, that are actually in my saved songs playlist in order of being mentioned:
> 
> Childish Gambino - This is America  
> Thomas Rhett - Grave  
> Nine Inch Nails - Bite the Hand that Feeds  
> London Grammar - Strong  
> Talking Heads - And She Was  
> Dirk Maassen - To the Sky (instrumental song referenced)  
> James Blake - Vincent  
> Blackblear - STFU  
> Marilyn Manson - We Know Where You Fucking Live  
> Queen - Princes of the Universe  
> Dave Matthews Band - Samurai Cop (Oh Joy Begin)  
> MIYAVI - So On It (the fast/upbeat song referenced)  
> The last few I think are written out straightforward enough  
> but notlikeanyonecaresaboutmygarbagechoiceinmusicokbye


End file.
